No chance could have been happier than this which betrayed him to these two at the same time; for Bertha Cross's good sense would be the best possible corrective of any shock her more sensitive companion might have received.

Bertha Cross's good sense--that was how he thought of her, without touch of emotion; whilst on Rosamund his imagination dwelt with exultant fervour.

He saw himself as he would appear in her eyes when she knew all--noble, heroic.

What he had done was a fine thing, beyond the reach of ordinary self-regarding mortals, and who more capable than Rosamund of appreciating such courage?
After all, fate was kind.

In the byways of London it had wrought for him a structure of romance, and amid mean pursuits it exalted him to an ideal of love.
And as he thus dreamt, and smiled and gloried--very much like an aproned Malvolio--the hours went quickly by.